Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

Walak drew his great blade and chopped the air with it. All at once, the ground began to tremble as the armoured lancers began to trot forward, gaining speed. They intended to crash through his lines, crushing and destroying the formations. W’soran smiled thinly. They wanted to make a path… so be it. He was nothing if not accommodating.

Soon the vojnuk were galloping towards his lines, lances lowered, back-banners streaming. Snow fell around them, and at any other time, if he were any other man, W’soran might have felt a stirring at the sight. Instead, contempt filled him. He had felt the same, watching the chariots of the Great Land. Thugs and bullies, thinking power came from their hooves and weapons. But power came from the mind, from within.

‘I will show you power,’ he spat.

The vojnuk drew closer. He could feel their approach in his belly and in his bones. Beside him, Merck cringed, exposing his teeth in a worried snarl. ‘Master…’ he began.

‘Calm yourself, acolyte,’ W’soran said. He could see the faces of individual vojnuk now. He could see Walak’s eyes widen slightly, behind his visor. He had been recognised. Good. W’soran grinned. He and Merck were well out of the line of the charge.

‘Master,’ Merck yowled. The ice behind them cracked and burst, vibrated free by the thunderous charge. W’soran gestured and the dead collapsed, like puppets with their strings cut.

It was a simple enough ploy. He controlled their every action, and the very stuff that held them together. To drop them all at once required no more thought than pulling them to their feet.

The vojnuk charge was unimpeded, the expected impact never came, and men and horses rode on, straight into the Black Water. A hundred men and horses rode onto the cracking ice, their momentum carrying them far past the shallows. They realised their plight quickly, and men began yanking on reins, trying to turn their horses about. Animals squealed as hooves slipped and slid on the ice, and men bellowed and screamed. The riders in front were the first to feel the bite of the Black Water, as the weight of the front ranks caused the ice to snap and snarl and gape. Men and horses plunged into the water into shrieking knots, and W’soran chortled.

W’soran gestured again. The dead stood, even those that had been trampled and broken, and they turned as one, shields locked and spears levelled. The charge was broken; it was no longer a thundering engine of destruction, but simply a scrum of desperate men, trying to reach shore as the ice began to give way beneath them. The dead began to march onto the ice, pushing against the horsemen, forcing them back through sheer weight of numbers.

W’soran laughed and clapped, gleeful. ‘Oh, see, Merck! See how the mighty become the meek at the merest whisper of my power, eh?’ He turned. The battle had begun in earnest. Tarhos and Ullo had engaged Horda’s horse-archers and the bulwark of infantry. Tarhos’s skeletal riders crashed through the infantry line, heedless of casualties and blind to even the most rudimentary tactics. There was a certain blunt beauty to such an attack, but if their goal had been victory rather than simple distraction, it would have failed.

Ullo had engaged his enemy head-on as well, if with more surgical precision. Like the shark he resembled, the Strigoi had gone for the weak spot, closing swiftly and removing the horse-archers’ advantage. Now, amidst the swirling melee, Ullo and Horda traded heavy blows with superhuman energy. The two vampires were evenly matched.

‘Raise the dead as they fall, Merck,’ W’soran said, as he turned back to his apprentice. ‘We must keep our guests occupied, until-’

His words were lost in Merck’s scream. The vampire was lifted from his saddle by the sword jutting from his chest, and sent hurtling towards the Black Water like a shrieking comet. Walak, covered in water and frost, his armour battered, growled and urged his mount forward towards W’soran. ‘Sorcerer,’ Walak roared. ‘I shall take your head back to the Captain, and lay it at his feet!’

The vampire had hacked his way through the dead. His horse was on its last legs, bleeding from a hundred wounds, its eyes rolling. Walak himself didn’t look much better, but he seemed determined. He swept his blade out, aiming to cleave W’soran’s head from his shoulders. W’soran leapt lightly from his saddle, avoiding the blow. He drew his scimitar as he landed and cut the legs out from under his opponent’s mount. The animal tumbled with a squeal and Walak with it. But he rolled quickly to his feet and renewed his attack.

They traded blows for a moment. W’soran was impressed by the other vampire’s strength. His was still the greater, but Walak was a trained warrior, and deadly. W’soran had learned much of swordplay in his centuries, but Walak had been trained by the greatest warrior to ever tread the world’s sands. They spun about, their blades weaving a wall of steel between them.

They broke apart a moment later. On the Black Water, the surviving vojnuk had reached the shore. They battered through the dead with all the fury of men determined to survive. There weren’t many left, but enough to cause trouble.

Then, from the north, came the unlovely sound of orc drums and the raucous wailing of their horns. W’soran hissed in pleasure and looked at Walak, who circled him warily. ‘Do you hear that?’ he asked.

‘I hear,’ Walak growled. ‘It makes no difference, old man. I will take you back to Mourkain, even if I must wade through the blood of every greenskin in these mountains.’

‘Just a moment ago, you intended to take my head,’ W’soran spat. It seemed his earlier suspicions had been correct. They had come for him. That boded ill. ‘What purpose does your Captain — does Abhorash have for an old man, eh? What need has the Great Dragon for a humble priest such as myself?’

‘He doesn’t,’ Walak said. He sprang forward. W’soran caught his blow and heaved him back. Walak slid to a stop several feet away, snow billowing around his legs. Beneath their feet, the snow shifted and W’soran could feel the approach of the orcs. Walak’s sword came around, forcing W’soran back a step. ‘But Ushoran does…’ Walak said.

A moment of fear flared through him. Was it truly Ushoran who required him… or Nagash? And if the one, and not the other, what did it mean? He opened his mouth, ready to attempt to draw the answers from Walak.

‘Walak,’ a voice roared. Incensed by the interruption, W’soran saw Ullo galloping towards them.

Walak whirled and was knocked sprawling by the base of the standard that smashed into his helm. Ullo rode past, hefting the enemy banner like a spear. The Strigoi howled and shook it. ‘Take my legion from me, will you?’ he snarled, launching himself from his saddle to bring the standard crashing down on his dazed opponent. ‘They were mine! The glory was mine!’

He roared, slapping Walak from his feet hard enough to splinter his makeshift club. With a growl, he hurled aside the shattered standard and leapt upon Walak, his talons sinking into the other vampire’s much-abused helm. In his frenzy, he tore the helm from Walak’s head and smashed the vampire to the ground. For a moment, W’soran thought Ullo would kill the Harkoni. Then Walak’s hand flashed and Ullo reeled, pawing at the heavy Rasetran-style dagger jutting from his chest.

Walak staggered to his feet and retrieved his sword. He was grinning through the mask of blood that obscured his features. ‘You’re a good fighter, Ullo, but you’re a piss-poor general. You always have been. A good fighter, though. I’m almost sorry to take your fangs…’ He raised his blade. W’soran hesitated. No one could blame him, if Ullo fell here. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t contemplated the same…